


Evening You Gather Back

by seapotato



Series: Wintering [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bath Time, Caretaking, Domestic, Flirting, M/M, No Spoilers, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Pining, Pre-Season/Series 05, Romantic Tension, Slice of Life, Smitten Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Snow Fight, Sugar Daddy Arthur, Winter, bisexual disaster Arthur, but with hand-me-downs, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29679585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seapotato/pseuds/seapotato
Summary: The snow was too dry to make proper snowballs, which is the only reason Arthur lost their fight spectacularly.---A short series of Merlin and Arthur in winter. Loosely linked, can be read separately.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Wintering [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101878
Comments: 18
Kudos: 83





	Evening You Gather Back

The snow was too dry to make proper snowballs, which is the only reason Arthur lost their fight spectacularly. He had also pulled a muscle in his leg last week that was still the tiniest bit sore, and it slowed him down. He knew the inherent flaw in his argument: Merlin was using the same exact snow, obviously, yet somehow all of _his_ snowballs sailed cleanly through the air without dissolving mid-way or crumbling in his hand at the slightest force.

Merlin's aim was terrible, but he made up for it by being fast and—ugh, there was really no other way to put it—lithe. He darted through the trees, threading between trunks as easily as a deer. He ducked and dodged all of Arthur's shots with a breathless taunt, returned Arthur's handfuls of soft, icy powder with his own poorly thrown but perfectly-formed snowballs.

It was infuriating. It was exhilarating.

Arthur hadn't had a play-fight in the snow since he and Morgana were children. He was mature enough to admit she trounced him four out of five times but there was no way was he going to let _Merlin_ take a victory. Unlike Morgana, Merlin was terrible at strategy and his throwing posture was hideous. Yet he managed to be the strangest combination of agile and clumsy Arthur had ever seen. He was unpredictable. One minute he'd charge at Arthur to clump snow at him point blank and the next he'd be spinning around a tree to rapidly fire an armful of impossibly dense projectiles. Only a few hit but quantity was apparently Merlin's goal.

Arthur could hardly get one handful to stick together enough to clear several yards before it disintegrated, so he resorted to blitzing handfuls of snow at Merlin, hitting upper tree branches that would dump snow down onto wherever he was hiding, and generally trying to trip, tackle, and ambush Merlin so he could cram snow down his sweater.

They were both cold, wet, and tired when Arthur finally managed to trick Merlin by leaving his cloak hung up on a branch, barely fluttering from behind the trunk. He then snuck as quietly as he could through the lightly crunching snow to circle around and behind Merlin. He didn't bother trying to throw snow at him. He launched himself bodily at Merlin, grabbed him round the waist and toppled him to the ground.

“Gah!” Merlin let out a surprised yelp which immediately devolved into a curse and an impressive amount of squirming for how long they'd been running around. He always whined on long hunting trips but he apparently had a ridiculous level of stamina when he wanted to. Arthur was ready to go inside, warm up, and collapse for the next few hours until supper, but no way in hell would he surrender.

Merlin managed to twist under him so they faced each other sideways and Arthur nearly lost his hold at the sight: Merlin's eyes were bright, he was glaring fiercely at Arthur, his cheeks were flushed from the cold.

Arthur became acutely aware of Merlin's waist half held in his arms. He could feel the soft give of Merlin's sweater through his gloves. It was Arthur's sweater, technically, that he'd ripped a hole in so he had an excuse to give Merlin something less pathetic than Merlin's oversized, worn-thin cast-off from Gaius. It was a blue that was nearly black and Arthur hadn't accounted for how distracting the sight of Merlin in his clothes would be. Arthur's soft dove-grey scarf was coming loose around Merlin's neck, too, his throat pale and shadowed in the bluing light of dusk. They both pretended Arthur had forgotten to ask for the scarf back after that morning hawking with Eiry, when they almost slipped on the castle's icy steps.

Merlin tried to shove at Arthur's shoulder while kicking a heel into his calf, half-laughing as he yelled, “You absolute brute, Arthur, you're too heavy!”

Arthur's attention was split between too many things, all of them Merlin. He rolled them quickly to settle more of his weight over Merlin so that Merlin would say Arthur had won and they could get up, dust themselves off, and Arthur could spend the walk back to the castle reorienting himself and resolutely not brushing snow out of Merlin's hair.

He pinned Merlin's kicking legs under one thigh and leaned both hands heavily on Merlin's shoulders so he couldn't wriggle his way out.

“ _Yield_ ,” Arthur said, using the same tone he inflected on the training grounds and in a duel.

Merlin, surprisingly, went utterly still underneath him, eyes wide and darting to the side before settling somewhere around Arthur's shoulder. Good. Merlin shifted a little and Arthur pressed his leg down more. He watched Merlin swallow once, both of them still panting lightly. Little clouds of warm air mingled between them. Then Merlin looked at him and their eyes locked and Arthur thought, not for the first time, _Oh. Oh no._ He wanted to kiss him _so badly._

The day had been so perfect it was stupid. Paperwork in the morning with Merlin quietly tidying up, Arthur at his desk; a late lunch together in Gaius's workshop partly for a change of scenery and partly because Merlin wanted to show Arthur a beautifully illustrated book of rare herbs he'd been studying; only one meeting with his father's council, Merlin standing across the room by the windows doing a terrible job at hiding what he thought of everything being said as reds and purples from the stained glass played over his hair; the late afternoon spent chasing each other around in the snow.

All of it with Merlin in his _sweater_ which he was equal parts terrified and thrilled at the notion of someone recognizing, though of course no one did. Morgana gave him a sidelong look when they passed her in the hall but that could have been for anything.

Arthur was pretty sure he and Merlin had been flirting while flinging snow at each other. Probably? He'd been flirting, at least, kind of, but he kept forgetting to do all the charming stuff and he was too proud to let Merlin win just because he wanted to kiss him up against a wall. Above all, he'd been enjoying himself too much to remember proper courting, which probably did not include smashing handfuls of snow into your intended's hair.

And now—now Merlin was underneath him, looking at him like that. _Stupid_ , Arthur thought, _I'm so stupid_. He couldn't mark when his feelings had grown into this hungry, consuming thing; which, horribly, made him think he had always felt like this about Merlin to some degree. A degree that had been steadily climbing the past year. He felt like a table with some secret mechanism that folded itself open to reveal a much greater expanse than before.

“Yield,” Arthur said again.

They'd been like this for too long. Merlin did not yield. Arthur started to panic because what was he supposed to do? Did Merlin want him to—? Could, maybe, could he—? Then Merlin smiled and his eyes flicked to a point above Arthur's head.

“I don't think I will,” he said smugly.

Arthur heard the crunching slide above him a second before a wall of snow clobbered him like a huge fist to the back. He was knocked flat against Merlin, who immediately started laughing and used Arthur's lost balance as momentum to twist out from under and plant himself on Arthur's back, knocking off most of the snow in the process. With a speed and strength Arthur didn't know Merlin possessed, Merlin had a knee dug into Arthur's spine, a hand on the back of Arthur's neck, and his other hand tight around Arthur's wrist as he pressed it into the snow. It was a move Arthur was intimately familiar with because he'd taught it to Merlin. He didn't think Merlin ever actually learned anything from their occasional bouts of sparring. That sneak.

Arthur felt Merlin's weight shift and then Merlin said, low and amused in his ear, “Yield, Arthur.”

Merlin's hand tightened a little on the back of Arthur's neck. His thumb, cold and gloved, slipped beneath Arthur's scarf to press against skin.

Arthur was completely speechless. He could blame it on the sudden deluge of snow, the lightning quick reversal, but he knew his recovery time was one of his strengths. He wanted to scramble out from Merlin's grasp but he also wanted to press into it. He felt trapped in a totally different way than solely his position in the snow.

But he'd been cured of indecision by the time he'd come of age, and he knew when a battle was lost.

“Fine,” he said. His cheek ached where it was shoved into the cold snow, “I yield. You win.”

Merlin immediately rolled off and splayed himself out next to Arthur. “Oh thank god,” he said, “I'm exhausted.”

Arthur rolled over too, pressed his back against the cushion of snow to relieve the weird sense of absence he felt with Merlin gone. He was a little lightheaded; he felt that without the weight of Merlin on him, he might float away.

“Hey,” Merlin said, lifting his head to squint at Arthur in the fading light, “I won!”

“Yes, we've established that.” Bits of snow and ice that had been knocked into his boots and shirt were melting.

Merlin was positively beaming. “I won! Against _you_! Hah! I'm telling everyone.”

Arthur frowned and sat up, shoved at Merlin's half buried shoulder. “You will not, unless you don't want your prize.”

“That's not fair!”

“Take it or leave it, Merlin.”

“You are so mean. Has anyone told you that? You're bitter and a sore loser.”

Arthur shoved himself to his feet. He was going to be achy tomorrow, he could already feel his muscles stiffening. He reached down a hand to help pull Merlin up.

“Yes, I’m a tyrant. You tell me often. I'm so terrible that I'm letting you have first bath when we get back.”

“Pft,” Merlin scoffed as he let Arthur hoist him, “You're not _letting_ me, that's my prize.”

Arthur gave him a flat look. It was hard not to reach out and tousle the snow from Merlin's hair. It was impossible. But Arthur was a Pendragon, his will was iron. Merlin's eyelashes were clumped and wet with melted snowflakes. He would not. He clenched his numb hands into fists and started walking back to the castle.

“Not a word to anyone,” he called over his shoulder. Merlin was quick to follow.

“Fine, fine,” Merlin said. He didn't sound the least bit sincere.

“Especially not Gwen, she'll tell Morgana.”

“I said I wouldn't!” Merlin protested.

“You tell her everything, I've seen you gossiping in the hall.” 

It sounded petty even to Arthur's own ears. He wasn't sure what, or whom, he was jealous of. Was it that Gwen still gave Merlin small sprays of flowers sometimes? That Merlin laughed so freely around her? That she moved so comfortably around Merlin, her eyes as lovely and warm as honey? That Merlin could—and did—tease and joke and gently, harmlessly flirt with any number of people but Arthur was entirely dependent on Merlin for any such interaction, because who else besides Merlin would treat him that way?

Ugh, no. This was pointless. He would not feel self pity over his lack of friends. Or whatever. He turned and poked a finger at Merlin's chest.

“Besides,” he said, “I don't know how you did it, but I'm sure you cheated.”

Merlin turned an awkward cough into a more awkward laugh. “Hah, hah! How would I even do that? Never mind. Rest assured, my lips are sealed, I won't tell anyone you lost. I'll always help preserve your dignity, sire.” Merlin didn't even try to hide his mocking tone.

Arthur didn't deign to respond. He put all his focus on ignoring the cut of Merlin's cheekbones in the dusky blue shadows, the line of his throat left bare from his unraveled scarf, the wet sheen of his mouth from the warm condensation of his breath.

Merlin groaned in relief when they got inside. There was a steaming bath waiting in Arthur's room, right by the fire, which had been stoked to full force. A set of towels warmed on a chair next to the bath.

“It's so warm and I am _freezing_. I'm so tired. I can't believe you didn't give up sooner, you're too competitive.”

As if staying out too long was entirely Arthur's fault _._ Merlin hopped on one foot to take his sopping boots off. “Can we eat here tonight?”

Arthur toed off his boots as well and dragged himself to the armoire to dig out a fresh set of clothes. His socks squelched against the rugs and stone. Merlin started tugging off his own wet clothes and hung them on a rack at the foot of the tub by the fireplace.

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement, hesitating for not nearly long enough before he pulled out a second set of clothes, “I'm not needed for supper, bring up something when you're done and pass notice to my father that I retired early.”

Merlin answered with a loud hiss and a splash. Arthur turned just in time to see his pale frame limned in firelight, the broad but lean breadth of his shoulders, the sweep of his back, the curve of his—and then Merlin sunk down into the tub, folding himself up until only the top of his head was visible over the edge.

Merlin made a ludicrous sound that Arthur's mind unhelpfully replayed and committed to memory. Arthur's cheeks warmed. He fussed around stripping down to his underclothes before he brought the wet outer layers over to the drying rack. He kept his eyes carefully trained on arranging their clothes on it, the tub behind him, the fire in front.

He heard the water slop around as Merlin settled in. He gritted his teeth. “Are you just going to turn into a prune or are you actually going to bathe?”

“Prune,” Merlin said without an ounce of shame.

Arthur crossed in front of the fire to get a towel from the chair. In a moment of weakness he let himself glance over and saw Merlin's kneecaps, knobbly and faintly bruised, poking above the water like little islands. Merlin was in the water up to his shoulders, his head rested against the lip of the bath. His eyes were half-closed looking right at Arthur. Sleepy and hazy. Arthur let his gaze slide away as if he had only been glancing about the room. He quickly grabbed a warm towel and retreated back to the bed where he'd laid out the dry clothes.

“I'll be sure to let the cooks know they can serve you with the next roast,” he said.

His voice was steady but his fingertips felt tingly and his heart rabbited. This was _absurd_. It was Merlin, for god's sake! They saw each other every day, they spent a disgusting amount of time together, half of it bickering, surely he should be sick of being around him and nothing about him should be any more appealing to look at or think about than...than the inkwell on his desk! The tapestry he's had hung up since he was a boy, so familiar he doesn't even see it!

“Thank you, sire. I'd like to be paired with some nice sprigs of sage, please,” Merlin's voice was drowsy and muffled—he'd pillowed his head on his arm, elbow dripping onto the floor.

Merlin should be like the inkwell or the tapestry, and yet every time Arthur looked at him it was like looking at a stone with infinite facets cut into it. Familiar and new all at the same time, again and again.

They were quiet as Arthur dried himself off and changed into soft wool trousers and a loose tunic. He’d decided he would let Merlin have the bath as long as he wanted, until the water went tepid. He was more hungry and tired than he was cold, though he still felt a chill. He could go sit by his own fire. There was nothing notable about Merlin soaking in a bath a few feet away. Steeling himself, he brought the set of spare clothes he'd pulled out for Merlin over to the fire and stacked them on top of the remaining towels. He dragged another chair over, grabbed a book from his desk, and sat behind the head of the tub, Merlin facing away from him, near enough to the fire for warmth but far enough from Merlin that he could hopefully read, force his mind to focus on something else.

It would be fine. Merlin had won the bet, after all, and Arthur just had to wait for Merlin to get bored enough or hungry enough to finish up and then they could move on with the evening.

It worked for about ten minutes. It was, honestly, longer than Arthur thought Merlin could go without saying anything.

“Did you like the play the other night?” Merlin asked. His voice was quiet but insistent; Arthur knew Merlin would annoy him until he answered.

“I did,” Arthur said without looking up, “though the romance felt a bit contrived. Not enough fighting. What's his name, the villain's squire—he definitely studied actual footwork, and knew how to hold a saber, which is more than I can say for the troupe wintering with us last year.”

Merlin craned his head back to look at Arthur, but Arthur ignored him. “I knew you'd say that.”

Arthur frowned at his book. “What's that supposed to mean? I'm complimenting him.”

“ _The romance was contrived_ ," Merlin said in an unflattering and unfair imitation of Arthur's voice. “Arthur, you went entirely pale when the princess threw herself in front of the prince to block the arrow. And—”

“I did not!” Arthur looked up sharply to glare at him.

“ _And_ ,” Merlin continued mercilessly, turning back around so he faced away from Arthur again, which did nothing to hide the smug smile in his voice, “you're a hopeless romantic. I thought you were going to faint when the prince confessed. I swear you swooned a little, right at the part when he took off his disguise.”

“You—!” he dropped his book to the floor and dragged his chair closer so he could properly yell at Merlin that _no_ , he had just been _surprised_ about the disguise like everyone else, and what was wrong with being a romantic anyway? It was noble, it was brave, it was...agh! It was the worst, is what it was. It didn't feel noble or brave at all. It meant he did stupid things like spend hours contriving ways to give Merlin his clothes and it meant he felt like the biggest, luckiest fool in the world when Merlin watched him on the training field with a slight smile on his face. It meant he wanted to show off and run away at the same time.

Merlin's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur said, lacking any proper argument. Instead he shoved Merlin's shoulder with his foot, then shoved again when Merlin's laugh tumbled out. He was about to shove a third time when Merlin caught his ankle in a tight, wet grip and tugged his foot underwater.

“Merlin! Let go!” Arthur tried kicking at Merlin's shoulder with his other foot but Merlin caught that one too and shoved it underwater. Why the hell were his hands so strong? How were his fingers so long?

Arthur struggled for a minute, splashing water over the edge. Merlin held fast, laughed at him while saying, “Not 'til you admit it!”

“There's nothing to— _ah_ , _damn_ ,” his calf suddenly seized up, the muscle drawing itself tight and cramped.

“Sorry, I'm sorry!” Merlin said. He immediately let go of Arthur's ankles.

“It's not...” Arthur hissed through his teeth. “Just. Don't move.” The muscle he'd pulled last week had been stubbornly slow to recover. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to ride it out but each second the muscle ratcheted tighter and tighter, sharpening so much he let out a harsh gasp that was nearly a whine.

“Here, let me, I can,” Merlin fumbled and then pressed his fingers unerringly between ankle and calf, digging into the muscle with painful precision. “Try to breathe through it, through your nose.”

Slowly, Merlin's fingers and the heat of the water loosened the cramp enough for Arthur to slump back in his chair and open his eyes. Merlin kept kneading the muscle, soothing (“it'll pass, it'll pass”) and reprimanding (“wouldn't have happened if you didn't bully me”) by turns.

Arthur rotated his ankle, extended his foot to a point then drew it back, testing the muscle.

“Better?” Merlin asked. He turned to glance sideways at Arthur, having to tilt his head back to look up now that Arthur was sitting right behind the bath. He had stopped kneading but kept a light hold of Arthur's ankle.

Arthur nodded at him. He was a little dazed. Merlin turned around and settled again, sinking a little lower so the water lapped at the back of his neck. Arthur didn't shake off Merlin's hand around his ankle and Merlin didn't let go.

“When did that happen?”

“Last week. It's nothing, pulled a muscle on the training field.” Arthur didn't really want to get into it. When the pain faded it took with it any remaining energy he had. Merlin gave a displeased huff but let the topic drop. Instead he swayed Arthur's ankle slightly under the water, almost absently, like Arthur's leg was a switch of grass he held as he thought something through.

The light drag of the water felt good--the warmth, the barest pressure.

Arthur’s exhaustion spread through him while he tried to ignore the way he felt lit up inside with what was happening. They'd touched plenty of times, a million instances of everyday dressing and armor and wounds and battles. Merlin was also _handsy_ , the touchiest person Arthur had ever witnessed. He constantly pushed at Arthur's arm, bumped his shoulder, grabbed at his hands or shoved at his waist, clambered over Arthur to get out of a hunting tent.

But they'd never done something like this. Something quiet and charged, that lasted longer than the time it took for the situation to shift, for one of them to look away. Arthur didn't know what the rules were. Was he supposed to pull away, draw back? Had the moment passed? Was he supposed to pretend he didn't notice anything unusual? Their play-fight had ended, Arthur's leg was fine now, there were no more excuses for him to stay with his legs draped in the water, bracketing Merlin's pale, freckled arms.

Before he could really start to panic, Merlin pressed his thumb below the swell of Arthur's calf again and drew his thumb down, much more gently than when the muscle had cramped. Arthur stared at the back of Merlin's head. His hair was curling at the ends from the steam. The combination of Merlin's deft fingers and his damp, fire-lit hair blinked out the last part of Arthur's mind capable of any coherent thought.

“Alright?” Merlin asked.

Arthur's head hit the back of the chair and he looked at the ceiling, unfocused, thoughts blank.

“It's fine,” he answered, his mouth moving automatically.

Arthur lost track of time. Merlin gave equal attention to each leg, but it wasn't really a massage for his injury nor was it blatantly sensual. Merlin's hands never strayed from their respectful path and he didn't tease Arthur at all. Yet it was undeniably intimate. It was, Arthur thought, still staring unfocused at the ceiling, one side of his face growing too warm from the fire, utterly domestic. An unhurried caretaking, something you'd do for your—

Arthur nearly jolted when Merlin's head thunked against Arthur's right knee, hooked over the tub to be level with Merlin's temple. At this point, Arthur realized, Merlin was fully nestled between his legs. He wasn't sure when Merlin had stopped his ministrations but Arthur's calves were pressed along Merlin's upper arms, slippery in the water, and Merlin had gone back to loosely clasping each ankle.

“M'tired,” Merlin said blearily.

The water had cooled and Merlin's hair was soft and crinkly from drying by the fire. A few strands tickled at a sensitive spot on the side of Arthur's knee. Merlin's neck was red from spending so long in the hot water. He was a heavy and pleasant weight against Arthur's leg. Had Arthur fallen asleep himself? Was this a dream? What was he supposed to do now? Was this normal? Arthur hadn't had a lot of true friends in his life, certainly not since he was a child. 

Is this what friends did? It certainly wasn't what a servant did, but nothing Merlin did was, even his servant's tasks. Arthur still felt out of his depth, not knowing what new rules might be in place, how to behave as himself when there were parts of him unfolding like a trick box, revealing new drawers and hidden walls and thrice the space inside than one thought from the outside. Did Morgana and Gwen do things like this? No, no, back away from that thought.

“Arthur? You awake?”

Arthur wiggled his leg, nudging Merlin's head. “Yes—come on then, dry yourself off. You've still got to fetch dinner.”

Merlin made a whiny, pathetic noise and turned his face to press his forehead into Arthur's knee, mashing his nose into the crook. Arthur was going to absolutely lose it. He was going to tug Merlin's hair so Merlin's head tilted back, neck arched beautifully over the edge of the tub, and he was going to kiss Merlin's stupid mouth until Merlin left him alone. Which, yes, held several conflicting interests at once, which, yes, just made him more annoyed at himself.

He shoved a little harder against Merlin's head, summoned every ounce of restraint and willpower he had, and sloshed his legs out from the tub.

“I'm going to eat everything myself if you don't get out of that bath,” Arthur threatened.

He moved the spare clothes he'd brought over and pettily dried his legs with the towel he'd left for Merlin.

Finally, when Arthur was pulling on warm socks by the bed, he heard Merlin splash about as he climbed out and dried himself off. Arthur's nerves were frayed. He had no idea what to do with himself so he went to the door and stepped into the hallway to call for their supper. It was late, now, and he belatedly realized that neither of them had given Arthur's excuses from dining in the hall. Well, too late. His father would assume he'd gone to bed early anyway.

When he got back to his room Merlin was dry and dressed in Arthur's spare clothes with a quilt draped around his shoulders as he went about lighting the rest of the candles and clearing some space on the table. Ridiculous. Arthur wanted to both push him over and tuck him into his bed.

It wouldn't be impossible, he thought as they sat down to eat. Merlin still held the quilt around him and looked utterly soft and relaxed; it wouldn’t be impossible to put some extra food on Merlin's plate, to encourage him to eat as much as he wanted so that it didn’t go to waste. It wouldn't be impossible after half a day's exercise in the cold, a hot bath, and a full stomach for Merlin to drift off. Arthur could demand Merlin stay to turn out the lamps after Arthur was done reading. Merlin would probably fall asleep in the chair and out of charity Arthur could bundle him in the quilt and move him easily to the bed. Merlin would have to be here in the morning anyway, same as every morning, and it was already late. It would be more convenient if he stayed the night.

Arthur had just finished strategizing and was about to tell Merlin he wanted to read for awhile when Merlin rose, stacked their dishes, set them outside the door, walked over to Arthur's bed with the quilt dragging on the stones, and flumped down onto it.

“You have that look about you, the _I'm thinking_ look—you can stay up reading if you want but you'll have to turn the lights out on your own.”

“What—that's my bed,” Arthur said, like an idiot. He was unnerved by Merlin so easily subverting and acquiescing to a plan he hadn't even put into motion yet.

“Pft, I'm the one who tidies it every day.” Merlin said as he wriggled up the bed so that his head was on a pillow, his back turned towards Arthur's side of the bed.

“Get up,” Arthur said, exactly the opposite of what he wanted.

“Shh,” Merlin's hand emerged from the quilt to drag another blanket up over himself, “I'm asleep.”

Even though the outcome was what he'd hoped for, the way it happened was a little embarrassing. It felt like Merlin could read his thoughts and was humoring him somehow.

Arthur shoved down a mix of self conscious giddiness and fetched his book from where he'd dropped it on the floor. The bathwater could be taken care of tomorrow. Tonight, he blew out most of the candles and turned the lamp at his beside low before banking the fire and carefully climbing into his bed.

He propped himself against the pillows and tried to pick up where he left off in his book. It was one Merlin had read and left behind, almost carelessly if not for the fact that it appeared in several obvious places in Arthur's room until Arthur gave in and started reading it; it was a winding tale of betrayal, love, blood feuds, and—treasonously—magic. Arthur had no idea where he’d even found it. Merlin had left little scraps of marginalia next to passages he'd particularly liked. The book was another odd unspoken thing between them.

Three pages in and Arthur was already drowsy. He turned a page, starting to nod off, when he felt the blankets shift. Merlin scooted to press the line of his back against Arthur's side, sighing contentedly. He was warm. His presence felt—good. Uncomplicated, in the moment. A simple indulgence, immense gratification. Arthur let his eyes dip closed, and his head sink back onto the pillows. The lamp was still burning but he knew he'd wake up later anyway to properly get under the blankets. For now, though, he let himself take what was given.

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin is pushing every boundary and is confused, overjoyed, and terrified to find that there is no actual boundary
> 
> Arthur: head empty, only splish splash
> 
> Title is from Fragment 104 of Anne Carson's translation of Sappho in "If Not, Winter"
> 
> Your kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc. keep me warm and writing through this frigid winter <3


End file.
